And yet I would not have you think That all our men are shabby; But ’tis said in every flock of sheep There will be one that’s scabby. I’ve heard, before election came They tried to buy John Slade; But he gave them all to understand That he wasn’t in that trade. And we’ve got lots of other men Who rally round the cause, And go for holding up the hands That gave us equal laws. Who know their freedom cost too much Of blood and pain and treasure, For them to fool away their votes For profit or for pleasure. AUNT CHLOE’S POLITICS. Of course, I don’t know very much About these politics, But I think that some who run ’em, Do mighty ugly tricks. I’ve seen ’em honey-fugle round, And talk so awful sweet, That you’d think them full of kindness, As an egg is full of meat. Now I don’t believe in looking Honest people in the face, And saying when you’re doing wrong, That “I haven’t sold my race.” When we want to school our children, If the money isn’t there, Whether black or white have took it, The loss we all must share. And this buying up each other Is something worse than mean, Though I thinks a heap of voting, I go for voting clean. LEARNING TO READ. Very soon the Yankee teachers Came down and set up school; But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,— It was agin’ their rule. Our masters always tried to hide Book learning from our eyes; Knowledge didn’t agree with slavery— ’Twould make us all too wise. But some of us would try to steal A little from the book, And put the words together, And learn by hook or crook. I remember Uncle Caldwell, Who took pot-liquor fat And greased the pages of his book, And hid it in his hat. And had his master ever seen The leaves upon his head, He’d have thought them greasy papers, But nothing to be read. And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben, Who heard the children spell, And picked the words right up by heart, And learned to read ’em well.